


You Think You've Changed Your Mind

by toesohnoes



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark wakes up with the ability to hear Eduardo's thoughts. It would have been a lot more helpful when they were still talking to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mark's eyes snap open in the darkness and he clutches at his chest, fingernails scratching at the cotton of his t-shirt. He expects to find a dagger, but there's nothing. No blood, just pain. It's like electricity and fire, hot blue on the inside of his eyelids.

Stumbling from bed, Mark fumbles for the phone. _I'm having a heart attack_ , he diagnoses, followed swiftly by, _I think I'm dying._

It's interesting. Terrifying, and painful, but interesting.

His fingers knock his cell phone to the floor and he drops to his knees to chase it. His breath wheezes; he sounds like an old man. Clutching hold of his phone, his fingers are useless as he tries to press the right keys. Touch screen. Bad idea.

He slumps back against the wall and holds onto his phone like a stress ball. Eyes closed, he tries to remember how the clean flood of oxygen feels. His medicals all check out - but none of that matters, really, when it feels as if someone is trying to hollow out his chest with an instrument that isn't sharp enough for the job. It's torture.  
And, suddenly, it's over.

The pain releases as if yanked away, and he opens his eyes looking for a rescuer: there's no one there. He is sitting on the floor in the corner of his bedroom clinging to his phone like it's a security blanket, and he is utterly alone. There is nothing but a wounded, empty ache in the centre of his chest, and he's pretty sure that that's an emotional response rather than a physical one. It's kinda odd. He's never felt that before.

It takes him too long to be able to uncurl his limbs, as stiff as tree roots, and crawl back into his bed. The sheets are cold and tangle around his legs, and he lies awake for forty minutes staring across his bedroom in the dark, feeling his own mortality and an aching loneliness that has never plagued him before.

When he falls asleep, he dreams of Eduardo for the first time in months.  


*

He's a blank mess the next day, but no one comments on it. They're probably used to their zombie-eyed, sullen boss by this point, and Mark barely notices that nobody notices that he's a mess; he's not used to paying attention to them either.

His chest doesn't hurt any more, not that stabbing pain, but as he sits behind his desk flicking through document after document there's something heavy in the air around him. Fog, maybe, except the room is clear and he's certain this is in his head. His heart. Somewhere between the two.

He leaves work early that evening.

He goes home and sits by himself, watching dumb comedies that don't amuse him at all. He doesn't code; he doesn't want to. He never doesn't want to code. This might be the first time in his life that the sight of a computer makes his stomach churn. He thinks he's ill. It might be fatal.

And then he thinks, _God, this is delicious_ , which is really weird since he hasn't eaten anything in at least three hours and there is no food in his apartment. Doesn't seem to matter. His mouth still salivates and his stomach grumbles in earnest delight. Mark stares down at it in silent accusation. He's not sure what's going on here. He is, however, absolutely certain that he doesn't like it.  


*

After a week of aching chests and random thoughts and lying in his bed clinging to a pillow because he feels so stupidly lonely that he might cry, he goes to see his doctor. They spirit him through every single test that they can think of, and he's just about as healthy as a man in his mid-twenties with a terrible diet, no desire to exercise and a cruel sleeping pattern can be.

"There's some unusual activity in your brain scan," the doctor says when he pushes him on the matter. "But it really is nothing to worry about at all."

"What's going on?" Marks asks. "Tell me exactly."

They bring him the scans and walk him through every coloured blip. High activity, bright colours, but nothing dangerous. Definitely nothing fatal. The doctor panders to his ego, suggesting that it might be an explanation for how he has managed to achieve so much, and Mark ignores him. There's something going on here, even if this doctor won't agree.

"Is there a car waiting?" he asks his assistant when they're waiting in the elevator. "There's that meeting with Thomas and Jessica. I'm going to be late if we don't rush."

His assistant stares at him for a moment, before she looks down to investigate her Blackberry. "Your schedule is clear for the day," she says. "Who are Thomas and Jessica?"

It's a good question. Unfortunately, he has no idea what the answer might be. "You're my assistant. It's your job to know that kind of thing."

She looks like she might have just swallowed a spoonful of salt, and he feels bad about that, but not bad enough to apologise. Or elaborate. Or do anything other than spend the rest of their trip in frowning silence, while she makes frantic phone calls trying to work out if there's a meeting that he's supposed to be attending. There's nothing, just a yawning gap in his schedule that he was going to spend glaring over the shoulders of Facebook's programmers.

In the end, he doesn't do that.

He leaves the office. He turns off his phone. He finds a park.

There are flowers and grass and an ice-cream stand. It's the kind of place that shouldn't exist in the middle of a city, but he finds a park bench and is glad for the quietness that surrounds him. A statue dedicated to some great man or other rears in the background, and he ignores it. He stares ahead of himself without seeing a thing.

He is thinking about going home; he is thinking about slipping off his tie and taking a shower, or maybe a bath, and then making something to eat, stir-fry probably – there's food in the fridge. He can glance over the accounts on his laptop once he's in bed.

All of which are really weird, because he's not really thinking about any of that stuff at all. That is not the kind of thing that Mark Zuckerberg thinks about. He's feeling like a pod person right now, like he's been replaced without knowing it, except he's still inside his own head and he knows that this stuff is wrong - that it's not him.

And then there's the other thing.

The weird thing.

(yes, weirder than thinking thoughts that he would never think.)

These thoughts, these not-his thoughts, are coming through in a not-him voice.

More specifically, they're coming through in an Eduardo-style voice.

Ordinarily, that wouldn't be that weird, because Mark has had an Eduardo voice in his head for a long time, one that comes out once in a while to express its displeasure when he's gone too long without sleep. And, yeah, that makes him sound crazy. He's not. For years, he was so used to Eduardo nagging and looking after him that it's taken hold. Even now.

Yet that's not the kind of thing that he's talking about any more. These aren't his own thoughts coming through in a faux-Eduardo tone.

He's almost certain that they are Eduardo's thoughts coming through in Eduardo's voice, and Mark thinks that maybe he's just qualified for the X-Men.

"Huh," he says under his breath. The silence of the park doesn't answer.  


*

Maybe finding out that he has the telepathic ability to listen in on his ex-best friend's thoughts when he's in a completely separate city should be a bigger deal than it is, but Mark takes it in his stride. He doesn't let anyone else in on the secret, because it's really none of their business and because he can't think of anyone that would be interested in Eduardo's mundane thoughts anyway, but he does a little bit of digging. The best thing about computers is that they're easy to talk to if you know the right language. Mark is fluent.

It's not much of a surprise to discover that Eduardo had a business lunch with a pair called Thomas and Jessica yesterday. It's actually a relief, because now he has positive proof that he isn't going crazy - he's just going psychic. Or something. That's the part that he hasn't worked out yet.

It's actually exciting, having a new project to work on, a new puzzle to work out.

It's less exciting that it's _Wardo_ that is at the heart of it, because Mark's main survival technique since the lawsuits has been not to think about him, not to remember any of it at all. If Eduardo's thoughts these days are anything to go by, he uses the same technique. Mark doesn't hear anything about himself. It makes him cranky.

He gave Eduardo exactly what he wanted in the settlement, didn't he?

Eduardo should be thinking about him.

A lot.

He's earned it, hasn't he? Instead, all that he hears about is the monotony of Eduardo's life: people he meets and meals he has and movies he watches during long haul flights. It's like listening in on the dullest reconnaissance tapes in existence. There's nothing important here, and Mark is disappointed by that. He doesn't believe in fate or anything like that, but he'd like to think that there's more to do with this new development than listen to Eduardo's grocery lists.

Sitting in his office, staring at his computer screen, Mark taps a pen against his pursed lips as he thinks.

And then he makes a mistake.

Mark would say that he isn't the sort of person to make mistakes, not ever, or at least not often. He's logical and levelheaded and he doesn't allow his emotions to interfere with his actions.

Looking up Eduardo's current phone number and calling him right away is neither logical nor levelheaded. It's almost certainly emotional. If Mark isn't careful, he's going to have to start reconsidering his self-assessment.

He hangs up before it even rings twice, then slumps in his chair and stares at his phone as if it is the sole source of his problems. It is, really. If Alexander Graham Bell had slacked off a little more often, none of this would be happening.

He feels confused, and curious, and then his phone starts ringing in his hand.

Shit. _Shit_.

He doesn't pick up, not yet; he just stares at the offending piece of technology with a blank expression. Irritation begins to gnaw at the back of his mind, and he thinks it must be Eduardo's, not his own, so takes a breath and answers the phone.

"Yes?" he says.

"Hello?" Eduardo's voice is like an intravenous hit of nostalgia. Mark's mouth twitches. He might be smiling. "I just missed a call from this number."

He should probably be saying something right now.

"It was an accident," he says. The wave of confusion starts again. "My phone was in my pocket. It must have called you by itself."

 _Mark? What the hell?_ sounds in his head.

"You have my number?" Eduardo asks. He doesn't ask who this is - Mark takes that as a victory, at least. At least Eduardo recognises him. "How did you get that?"

Mark frowns and stares ahead of him. The burble of Eduardo's thoughts speaks to him across the miles, questions and irritation and something that's a little bit like hope. It's hard to make sense of everything going through his mind; it's fast and non-linear and it's bit and pieces of a context he can't quite make sense of.

After listening in, he realises that Eduardo is waiting for an answer. "Uh," he supplies. "I found it online. You should be more careful."

Indignation, sharp and hot. "You're saying it's my fault you tracked down my number?"

"If you don't want people to be able to contact you, you shouldn't leave your details online. It's common sense."

"What did you want, Mark?"

That's a good question. A really good one. Through the buzz of every firing neutron, Mark focuses and thinks, _Can you hear this?_

He waits.

 _Eduardo?_

Along the phone line, he hears an annoyed huff. "I'm going to hang up now. Are you even allowed to contact me?"

Mark swallows and frowns so hard that Eduardo must be able to sense it. "Can you hear anything?" he asks before Eduardo can hang up.

"Leave me alone, Mark," Eduardo sighs. It sounds like a plea.

Mark allows him to hang up and listens to the tone long after he's gone. He can hear thoughts burbling in his head like a heavy brook, and he tries to get a handle on it, to tame it somehow. There's too much, and most of it isn't complimentary.

Except there's one sentiment, one that hangs around saying it was good to hear his voice. That's the thought that cuts through the irritation and frustration to make Mark think that maybe the phone call was a good idea after all.

He's going to take back any bad thoughts about Alexander Graham Bell. The guy was definitely onto something.  


*

He wakes up in the middle of the night, his eyes snapping open to stare at the dusky ceiling above him. It isn't pain this time that drags him from sleep.

Beneath the covers, his cock is hard as a rock, forming a tent in the material. His lips part in delight as a shiver runs right through him.

 _Oh god, oh god, oh my god_ , echoes through his head. It's not his voice.

He's pretty sure that he's listening in on Eduardo's sex life now.

And he doesn't think he's been this turned on in a long time.

Experimentally, his hand drifts until he can take hold of himself, the palm of his hand hot against his skin. He rolls onto his front, hips raised to accommodate his thrashing hand and leaking erection, and in the dark it's almost like all of this is real. He can hear Eduardo's voice and feel his desperation and it's almost as if he's in the room with him, trapped beneath him, taking it when Mark's hips twitch into his own hand.

 _Oh, fuck, yes_ , Mark hears. The only sounds in his bedroom are his own heavy breathing and the slide of his hand against his flesh. _So good, yes._

He wishes he could see. He wants to be able to see Eduardo's face right now, to see the way it must flush and the way his pupils must be blown and black. Better than Erica, better than any of the girls he's been with in the past - Wardo, just Wardo. He holds in a groan by biting hard on his lower lip, listening as Eduardo's thoughts spin further and further out of control, reduced to nothing but feeling.

He comes at the same time as Eduardo does many miles away, his body tensing and breaking apart as he grunts and spills onto the bed sheets below. Panting for air, he tips to the side and allows his brain to fall into silence, numb static filling the airwaves.  


*

It's obviously not a normal thing to do. If someone like Dustin or Chris had been given this ability, they wouldn't be using it for eavesdropping jerk-off sessions.

Maybe they would, Mark reasons as he sits in a meeting that he's probably supposed to be paying attention to. It could be nothing more than a side effect. Being inside someone's mind (or having them inside your mind, it's not quite clear how this is actually working yet, but the grammar behind it probably doesn't matter too much) during sex makes it inevitable that there would be some feelings. Erotic feelings. It's biology, or something like that.

That doesn't really explain the images in Mark's mind or the way that thinking of Eduardo bent over, ass-up, nearly gets Mark hard again. He crosses his legs beneath the table and doesn't allow his expression to so much as twitch when the woman beside him glances over. Nothing's wrong here. If he doesn't acknowledge it, nothing is wrong.

He makes it through the meeting through the genius application of his ability to zone out, allowing Eduardo's thoughts to take over his mind rather than paying attention to his own. It's an odd form of meditation, but it takes him out of himself. It's a vacation in his own body.

"I need to take the day off," he tells his assistant once the meeting is over.

She looks down at his schedule, eyes widening. "But-"

"Someone else can cover for me," he states. The days when he _was_ Facebook have passed, now. It's all slipping out of his hands. If he dropped dead tomorrow, not that he's planning to, the company would be fine without him. Everything would go ahead without a hitch. Maybe that's an accomplishment.

Really, it makes him want to slip in some hostile lines of code in case of his untimely departure.

Or maybe not. Because that would endanger Facebook and Mark thinks he's already shown everyone that knows him that there's nothing he values more in the world than his site.

 _There's a stone in my shoe_ , Eduardo thinks. Mark takes a deep breath and closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to watch his assistant fly into a panic as she makes short-notice arrangements and rearrangements to fix the afternoon for his departure. He should probably give her a raise.

It takes him an hour to be ready to leave the office, and when Dustin asks him where he's off to he shakes his head. He doesn't think he knows (not yet, not consciously, not so he'll admit it).

It's easy to get to the airport, easy to board a flight, easy to travel as long as he's not thinking in anything other than Eduardo's voice. It's what comes next that is going to be the hard part.  


*

Eduardo is currently in Chicago for a week while he visits old friends that Mark has never heard of. There are some meetings as well, long and boring. Mixing business and pleasure. Practical. Never resting, but still drawn to people. Mark remembers that.

Hearing the patter of Eduardo's thoughts while on the plane is more entertaining than the in-flight movies. He closes his eyes and does nothing more than listen, wondering if this is becoming an obsession. He's been told in that past that he has an obsessive personality, prone to addiction. He's focused, that's all.

With Eduardo, after all this time, it might be more complicated than that.

He makes it back to Eduardo's hotel while Eduardo is still at dinner, so he goes to the hotel bar while he's waiting. Might not be such a good idea. His blood feels like it's fizzing already, like there's something running through his veins that just won't sit still. That feeling is definitely from him, not Wardo; lurking behind the nervousness, he can feel the relaxed amusement that probably means that Eduardo is out for dinner with friends.

There is a degree of jealousy mixed in with those nerves. All in all, it's not a pleasant feeling.

The second hand on the clock is moving at a ridiculously slow pace. He wonders if it needs a new battery.

He has a plan. It involves waiting for Eduardo to go up to his room, and allowing him to settle in, and then going up to talk to him once his thoughts are calm and relaxed. Mark hasn't actually thought of what he actually wants to talk to him about, or even why he's here, but he has enough of a plan to get him to the door. After that, it's all bound to fall into place.

Eduardo, however, seems unwilling to cooperate with his plans. At around ten thirty, Mark feels a wave of confusion blast into him, moments before Eduardo taps on his shoulder. "Mark?" he says. He sounds as if this is the unlikeliest thing to have ever happened to him. "What are you doing here?"

Very good question.

There's no good answer.

"I have to talk to you," Mark says. With a frown, Eduardo nods urgently. Mark doesn't have anything to follow that up with.

"What is it?"

Mark swallows. "Can we go up to your room?"

 _What the hell?_ Eduardo thinks. "I think we should talk here. Mark, are you okay?"

He's not. He's starting to understand that he's really, really not okay, but this isn't the right place for that kind of epiphany. Not in public, and not with Eduardo's concerned eyes on him. He can feel the mixture of worry and annoyance that Eduardo is feeling right now - he wonders what emotion will win out when he knows the whole story.

"Please," he says, even if the word is foreign currency to him. "I don't want to do this here."

There must be something in his voice, something especially pathetic, because Eduardo curses inside his head and then allows Mark to follow him to the elevator. They don't talk during the journey, and the elevator seems to take forever to go up. Mark's eyes glance to the side at every opportunity to steal glances at Eduardo, like a man starved of oxygen.

He's wearing one of his ridiculous suits, and his head is tilted back to watch the glowing numbers above the door as they count off the floors. It exposes his lean neck, the skin golden and warm, and Mark's eyes are drawn to the angle of his Adam's apple.

 _I'm here to fuck him_ , he realises, and it's not much of a revelation.

Eduardo has a large suite and when they enter Mark takes the time to look around. Eduardo watches him with arms crossed over his chest, frown on his face. The silence is heavy. Mentioning the weather doesn't help. Mark has never been good at small talk.

"Mark, you didn't fly all the way out here to talk about the rain," Eduardo says.

"You have a point."

"So?"

Mark blinks a few times. He wonders if this is what it feels like to look at an oncoming truck.

 _He's sick _, Eduardo thinks. _He's dying. He's here 'cause he's dying.___

His eyes are as big as a cartoon characters and his breathing is heavier than it has to be. His hands have been shoved deep into his pockets.

"I'm okay," Mark blurts. "I'm not ill or anything. I'm healthy. Mostly."

Eduardo nods, and takes a step further into the room. Mark is the one in the centre, acting as if he owns the place; Eduardo is the one hanging near the door, as if he might need to escape at any moment.

"You're here to tell me you're healthy?" Eduardo states.

"I don't know how to do this." Mark presses his lips together in concentration. "I left work today because I wanted to come and find you."

"You called me last night," Eduardo reminds him, "Out of the blue, and now you're here. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on." His eyes are wide and earnest. Mark can hear his thoughts and feel his concern. It's enough to make him feel drunk, because none of this can really be happening.

He walks towards Eduardo, closing the large space between them with all of the grace of a confused zombie. "Wardo," he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish that or what to say. His name is going to have to be enough.

Eduardo takes an automatic step backwards when Mark infringes on his personal space ( _what the hell?_ he thinks) but he goes still when Mark reaches out to grab hold of his arms. He flinches when Mark leans towards him; Mark can feel Eduardo's breath against his mouth.

 _Is he trying to kiss me? Don't be stupid_ , Eduardo thinks.

Mark's heart is pounding and he can feel nerves and excitement fighting in the pit of his stomach. There's no horror; there's no disgust. Eduardo isn't running for the door yet, even though Mark is so close that Eduardo's face is fuzzy in front of him.

Mark's hand shifts carefully to Eduardo's cheek. Eduardo flinches again in surprise, but he still doesn't pull away. He says Mark's name - whispers it, actually - and then Mark can't put it off any longer. He darts forward like a lightweight boxer, in and out before anything can register. His hand lingers on Eduardo's face even after the one-second kiss is over.

There is nothing in his head but static. Eduardo says his name again, and this time he is the one to lean forward and press his lips against Mark's. It isn't much longer, but this time Mark has the time to appreciate the softness of Eduardo's mouth and the way that he yields to him. He pushes forward, more demanding now, and Eduardo responds equally.

When they part lips, Mark breathes in Eduardo's scent and closes his eyes as he tries to hold himself together.

( _We can't do this_ , Eduardo is thinking, over and over.)

His fingers sink into Eduardo's hair; it's as thick as it looks, and stiff with too much product. "I came here to do this," he says. "I left work and I got on a plane and I came half-way across the country to do this."

Eduardo softens against him with the next kiss, every muscle in his body seeming to go lax under temptation. Stumbling backwards, Mark manages to lead him with him across the room, hitting into furniture and tripping over each other's feet, but they manage to find the couch with its expensive embroidered fabric.

Mark lands on it heavily and Eduardo climbs onto his lap without breaking the contact between their mouths. He feels like fire in Mark's hands, dangerous and ever-moving. His thoughts are a fractured mess ( _yes, oh- god that's good_ ) but Mark can feel his arousal mixed with his confusion; every single one of Eduardo's emotions is exposed to him, made clear, and he wishes that he'd had this back in college. Everything would have been easier.

His hand rests at the small of Eduardo's back as he breaks away from his mouth to explore along his jaw instead, over the barely-there stubble to his neck. "Mark," Eduardo says, soft as a whisper, while his fingers tangle in the curls of hair at Mark's nape. "Wait, Mark. What are we doing?"

Mark laughs in a puff of air through his nose, and doesn't move away from Eduardo's neck. He wants to suck a hickey there, something dark and ugly for everyone to see tomorrow. The thought makes his erection ache; he can feel his blood rushing south.

"What does it look like we're doing?" he asks. "Don't ask stupid questions. You're smarter than that."

Eduardo puts his hands on Mark's shoulders and shoves him against the back of the couch. He holds him at arms' length, frowning at him, and Mark can hear his thoughts buzzing as he tries to work out what to say. "I need to stop," Eduardo says eventually, after several stops and starts.

"You're worried that something is going to go wrong. That this is going to ruin things, which is great and all, but there really isn't anything left to ruin. We've already done all the damage we can." He'd laugh if it was funny, but it tastes like vinegar. "Stopping now, talking now, it isn't damage control. It's short-sighted."

Eduardo makes a sound that isn't anything like a laugh, and he looks away from Mark towards the side of the room. There's nothing there, just a standing lamp. When Eduardo starts to stand up, Mark holds onto him, arms tensing, and listens to the doubts running through his head.

"That wasn't an insult. It was insulting, but not an insult. That was an accident."

Eduardo stops trying to get off of him at least, but he's still debating whether or not to ask Mark to leave. Okay, fine. Mark still has a superpower on his side.

"Wardo, I'm not here to be a jerk. That bit just happens." He sees the corner of Eduardo's mouth twitch before he looks down, fighting a smile. "This is a chance. That's what I'm saying. The most logical thing to do is take it and see what happens."

( _Don't let him play you, not again._ )

"This isn't a trick. I promise."

( _Don't listen don't listen don't listen._ )

"Wardo," Mark says, because he's running out of words, "please."

It works. That one, single word - it works.

Wardo kisses him again.

Maybe it tastes like forgiveness.  


*

Eduardo's body is warm and pliable as the sun comes up outside, shining through the window onto his sleeping skin. Mark's hand rests on his shoulder blades, his fingers stroking back and forth. He can't sleep. There's too much going on in his head, and it's getting louder by the second.

It's like the volume has been turned up to eleven. Every sleeping thought, flickering dream, it's all echoing like fireworks inside his brain. His head pounds in time with his pulse.

The bed is warm, but it's too much and Mark has to break away. He slips out into the colder air of the hotel room, his bare feet padding against the wooden floor as he heads to the bathroom. It's around twice the size it has to be, and every surface is sparkling, and as Mark closes the door and sinks against it the sound in his head dulls, just a little.

In the mirror, he looks as if he has a hangover: dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, damp hair. "Shit," Mark whispers. He presses his hands against his forehead, but it doesn't help. "Shit, shit, shit."

Something has gone wrong. Last night was the most amazing thing to have ever happened to him, with the feeling of Eduardo's body around him and the open trust ringing in his head, but it's as if they've smashed all the windows and broken all the doors. Now there is endless noise and a throbbing headache.

He breathes through his nose and tries to will it away. There has to be a freaking volume control on this thing, something to turn it down, because he thinks his head might explode and that isn't necessarily a case of being over-dramatic. Earlier this week, he became a telepath. He's seen Scanners. He's not ready to go all Cronenberg yet.

He pushes himself up the door, one slow inch at a time, until he is upright again. The noise in his head still thumps like he's at a dance rave; he thinks Eduardo is dreaming about puppies. Puppies have no reason to be this loud.

His hand finds the door handle and he holds onto it until his knuckles go white. He can't think; he needs some air, some space, some piece and quiet.

 _Gone out. Back later._

He leaves the post-it note stuck to the bed-post and creeps out, getting changed as he heads to the door, hopping into his trousers as he goes. When he gets a few blocks away from the hotel, the sound in his head begins to dim, but it's still louder than it ought to be. It's like Eduardo is right there, speaking directly into his ear with a megaphone in hand.

He has to leave when he wants to stay and sort everything out. His feet feel like traitors, but the worst of it hasn't hit yet. He doesn't know what he's going to do when Eduardo starts to wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

It's nine o'clock by the time Eduardo's thoughts start to drift out of his dream, groggily waking up and working out what's going on. That doesn't help matters. Mark is sitting in a cafe, his legs tired from walking so far, and it's still too loud here. He can barely hear the waiter when he places his order.

He can feel Eduardo's worry and impatience growing, and he knows he has to make a move soon. The thought of going back to the hotel room makes his coffee taste bitter; his head pounds at the memory of how bad it had felt to be that close to him. He won't be able to function. How would he hold a conversation with Eduardo anyway, if he can't hear what is being said over the buzzing of his thoughts?

Yet he can't leave. Eduardo's thoughts are worried enough about waking up alone; if he goes straight to the airport to run as far away as he can get, that's the metaphorical equivalent of kicking any potential _thing_ they could have here right in the balls. It's a miracle that he ever persuaded Eduardo to bring him up to his hotel room last night. He's not going to get a second chance (third chance or fourth chance or whatever they're on right now) if he screws it up.

So he can't leave town, despite the boom of the thoughts in his head. And he can't go back, or he thinks the boom might become literal.

He pulls out his phone and taps at the keys, sending a message to let Eduardo know that he can't come back for a while. _What the hell?_ Eduardo thinks in response. A few moments later, his phone buzzes with a text: What's going on? U ok?

He tells him that being near him gives him a headache. Predictably, his phone starts ringing as soon as he feels Eduardo's swell of righteous anger.

"I give you a headache?" Eduardo snaps without bothering with 'hello'. "What the fuck?"

"Look, I can explain."

"This is low even for you." His voice is like a flame-thrower. "What- I- What is that even supposed to mean? I mean, what is this about? Humiliating me again? Last time wasn't enough? I trusted you."

"Wardo..." Mark rubs at his temples and tries to think clearly. Eduardo's emotions are clouding his own: he doesn't know how Eduardo makes it through the day without tumbling into a heap and crying at least twice. It's too much. "I'm not being an asshole. It's the truth. For the past few days, I've been able to hear your thoughts. All of them. I don't know how it started, but after last night everything has become louder."

There is a long, undefined silence. Mark knows that Eduardo is still there, because he can hear his thoughts and his irritated confusion. "Mark, this isn't-"

"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to tell you the truth."

"You're not-"

"I am." He takes a breath. This could take a while.

Fifteen minutes later, they are still arguing over the phone. Mark had been hoping to avoid resorting to the tricks of stage magicians, but by this point he's frustrated enough that he wishes there was a way to punch Eduardo through the phone. "Alright," he sighs. "Think of a number, any number." He cuts Eduardo off when he starts to protest. "Just do it."

It comes through loud and clear. "1302," Mark says. "Again." He only pauses for a second. "89. Again. 127,403. Again. -739. Okay?"

"This is ridiculous," Eduardo says.

 _It's got to be a trick, how the hell is he doing that?_

"I told you - I can hear it." He pinches the bridge of his nose. By now, his coffee has gone cold. "Last night, something happened. It got stronger, after we had sex. When I woke up this morning, my head felt like it was splitting open because you were too loud."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll just _think quieter_ , shall I?"

"I'm not saying it's your fault; I'm telling you what happened. I'm half-way across the city now and you're still echoing in my head, louder than before. I can't switch it off."

There's a quiet moment on the end of the line, and Eduardo thinks, _I can't believe I'm going along with this_ , before he says, "Are you trying to say you can't be in the same room as me?"

A week ago, a day ago, that wouldn't have mattered to Eduardo. Maybe that's progress. "I'm going to fix it," he promises. "There's got to be a way to switch it off again."

"It's your brain, not a computer," Eduardo says.

There's an ache in his chest and Mark can't tell which of them it belongs to. "I'll fix it," he repeats.

He doesn't know how to hang up the phone, how to go on from here - so they stay on the line, offering empty sentiments, until Mark doesn't think they've ever been further apart.  


*

 _I could hit you on the head_ , Eduardo suggests in an email.

Mouth twitching, Mark replies, _That probably wouldn't help._

He mentally hears Eduardo's reply before he receives it in his inbox. _It works in the cartoons._

 _I'll buy you a safe. You can drop it on my head._

Just for good measure, he arranges for a standalone safe to be delivered to Eduardo's apartment. When it arrives, the wave of second-hand amusement is so strong that Mark starts giggling alone in his office.  


*

When he comes into work the next morning, Dustin is sitting on his desk and Chris is parked in his chair. They are both dangerously close to his computer.

"So," Dustin says.

"So," Chris repeats.

"Is this an intervention?" Mark asks. He dumps his backpack in the corner near the door. "Because that didn't work out too well last time."

"Less of an intervention, more of an interrogation," Dustin says. "You and Eduardo."

Mark's eyes narrow. He wonders if there is anything forbidding him from setting fire to his employees when they get too nosy, even if said employees are his friends.

"Don't give us the evil-eye." Dustin raises his hands in surrender. "You guys have been on the phone a lot. We would be blind if we didn't notice."

"I could arrange that."

"C'mon. What's going on? Did you apologise?"

Mark glares some more. It makes him feel better. "I started to understand his point of view," he says.

Dustin and Chris both snort in laughter.

He glares some _more_ and knows that he's going to get a stress headache from all of this.

"Seriously. What happened?"

Mark shrugs. It's not as if he can tell them the telepath thing; they wouldn't even believe that he had acquired a sense of compassion, never mind anything more than that. Eduardo still barely believes it, despite all the tricks and evidence that Mark places before him. It occurs to Mark that he ought to get some friends that actually trust him.

"We talked," he says. "There's not much more to it than that."

They look at each other and wait for a moment - and Mark thinks that they will probably call Eduardo for the 'real' story soon. He's not sure if they even kept in touch. They screwed him over as well, after all, accomplices to the crime.

"Don't you have work to do?"

They filter away, giving him a punch on the shoulder as they do (and why do people do that? Mark's never going to get it). He sits down behind his desk once they're gone, stares at his email inbox, and wonders if he ought to warn Eduardo that things might be about to go public.  


*

It's roughly midnight when he starts being hit with increasingly graphic images in the Eduardo-owned part of his brain. His fingers freeze on the keyboard halfway through a word.

Eduardo is in his brain. That much has actually become normal to him.

Eduardo is thinking about fingering himself. Less normal.

Eduardo is fingering himself and thinking about Mark. Definitely not normal.

Mark is on the phone after only hesitating for a couple of seconds.

Eduardo's voice, when he answers, is out of breath but sunny as hell. "I was wondering if you were listening," he says.

"I'm always listening." Mark hears the sound of Eduardo's breathing, heavy and clouded, and remembers the noises he had made during their night together, every moan and whimper. "Are you doing it now?"

Eduardo chuckles. Mark shuffles where he's sitting; his erection is uncomfortable by this point. "Yeah. Yes. I'm – I'm doing it."

"Shit." Mark closes his eyes. "I should be there."

"Brain explosions," Eduardo reminds him – and then he moans, and it really is the filthiest thing that Mark has ever heard. "Do it. Touch yourself."

Mark's mouth feels dry. He glances at the door to his office. There's no one else here at this time of night. The office is wide and white and empty.

He reaches down and undoes the button of his jeans with one hand, his phone pressed so tightly to his ear that it hurts. He ought to put it on speaker, but he needs to feel the contact. It might be nothing more than a slim piece of technology, but right now it's all he has.

"Are you doing it?" Eduardo asks. "Talk to me."

"Yeah," he says. He isn't sure what he's supposed to say; dirty talk and phone sex don't come naturally when you're socially stunted. "I have my hand in my pants."

Eduardo hums, and Mark can feel him imagining it. "You're at your office?"

"I had to stay late. Where are you?"

"Some hotel room. I'm in bed, on my front, and I've got my fingers inside myself. I'm thinking about you."

"I know what you're thinking. I can hear it."

"Just go with me on this," Eduardo suggests. Mark closes his mouth. "I'm thinking about what we could be doing if you were here."

"What, no you're not. You're thinking about how to turn me on."

"Mark."

"It's not a criticism. It's working."

"God, I wish you were here. So I could throttle you."

"That's less of a turn-on."

"Who knows – you might be into it." Eduardo starts chuckling, low, intimate and right in Mark's ear. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that he can feel the warmth of Eduardo's breath. "It's hard to fuck myself when you keep making me go off-track."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're interrupting."

"Participating."

"You take over then."

"I don't know what to say," Mark admits. "I'm awkward about all of this, because I wish I was there instead of talking about what I would be doing if I was there. What's the point in thinking about fucking you when I can't?"

Eduardo makes a sound, high-pitched and strangled, and even though he feels Wardo's embarrassment right after it's just about the hottest thing he's ever heard. Eduardo says his name, whispering it, and Mark squeezes himself in his jeans.

"I want to be there," he says. "I wish I could get on a plane and head right over there and just-" He strokes himself and looks up at the ceiling as he thinks about it. The ceiling is white and bland - looking up, he could be in any room in the world. He could be right there with Wardo. "Do you think we'll even make it to a bed? When we finally get to see each other again, I mean."

"No," Eduardo pants. "On the floor, near the door."

"We'll get carpet burn."

"I'll put up with it," Eduardo says, laughing again before he breaks off into a moan. "God, we're not going to be able to walk for days."

"Bruises everywhere," Mark agrees. The image of Eduardo's warm skin bruised and marked because of him makes him grip his cock too tightly; it's almost painful. "They'll think we've gone missing. Everyone. Because I won't let you leave – not for a while. A week, maybe. Me and you and a hotel room and a lot of sex."

He hears Eduardo's breath shiver and he strokes himself as he talks. His heart is racing, and even if he's worried about what he's supposed to say he has the pulse of Wardo's thoughts there to guide him. By this point they've devolved into a general soundtrack of encouragement and praise; _yes_ and _fuck_ and _oh god oh god oh shit_.

"I like thinking about your mouth," he says, because he wants to keep talking when it makes Wardo fall apart like this. "I do that a lot, actually. I'm sure I could sue you for loss of productivity or something. It's distracting. Just – I think about fucking it. About whether or not you'd let me do that, just push you to your knees and make you take it."

Wardo's long moan suggests that he isn't entirely opposed to the idea, not one bit.

"I don't think I could be gentle. I mean, I'd start off that way. I would try. But once we started, once I know how it felt… Do you think you'd be able to take it? If I just let go and started fucking your throat, would that work? Do you think you'd choke on it?" Eduardo answers with a high-pitched whine. It doesn't sound anything like any word that Mark can imagine, but he can visualise Eduardo lying there on his front, his fingers up his ass while he jerks frantically on his cock. It makes his eyes shudder closed again and his hips thrust up into his hand. The distance is killing him.

"Anything," Eduardo moans. The sound of his voice is like lightning. "Mark, I'll do anything you want."

Mark has time to grunt with embarrassing abandon before he comes over himself, sticky jizz splashing over his sweatshirt.

"Mark?" Eduardo asks. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah." He has to take a moment before he can answer. "I just finished."

Eduardo makes a sound that must be a goddamn whimper, and it makes Mark think that he could come all over again. Eduardo says his name like it's an expletive, and then says, "Keep talking. I'm close now."

And it's still hard to know what to say, but he can use Eduardo's thoughts as a guide to see what works and what doesn't. To be honest, at this point pretty much anything works. He says Wardo's name a couple of times in a row, and each time it seems to push him even closer, until Mark can feel him wavering right on the edge.

 _Come for me_ , he wants to say, but maybe that's too dodgy-porno. Instead he opts for merely saying Wardo's name again, and apparently that's enough because this moan is way louder than the one before it, and Mark's spent cock twitches as he feels Eduardo orgasm in another city altogether.

Breathing down the phone, he wonders if this is all they're going to have now. Phone calls and dirty promises of _when when when_. For years following the lawsuit he had survived just fine without being in the same room as Eduardo, without even being in the same city. It shouldn't be this hard.

"Talk to you tomorrow," he promises when they sign off.

Sticky and still frustrated, it isn't enough.  


*

One week later, in the middle of the afternoon, the burble of thoughts in his head stops. Dead.

He's in the middle of a meeting at another company (he's always in the middle of meetings these days; life has never been this boring) when his spine goes straight and his eyes goes wide and he listens, listens, listens: there's nothing.

He doesn't move, like a rabbit in the centre of a clearing, even as he hears other people at the table checking if he's alright. His mind pulses with silence.

Something isn't right.

Standing up, he allows protests to fall on deaf ears as he leaves the room, out into the hallway and over to the secretary's desk. He picks up her phone without asking and dials a number he knows off by heart, even if he has no real reason to. How many times in the past few years has he failed to dial it?

It rings three times before Eduardo answers, rolling off his name with barely disguised amusement.

"You've stopped thinking," Mark says. He blinks like a lizard and enjoys the sound of Eduardo's breathing. "It went silent. What happened?"

Eduardo laughs, a light chuckle that flows through the phone lines. "I put tin-foil on my head," he explains.

Mark closes his mouth. Opens it again. Closes it.

"What?"

"Tin foil. You know, like in the movies? To stop the aliens from reading my thoughts?"

"I'm not an alien."

"But it did stop you." Eduardo laughs again. "Seriously? You really can't hear anything."

Mark frowns. "I thought you were dead."

"Alive and kicking. I look like an idiot right now, but... I can't believe that actually worked." By this point, Mark thinks that Eduardo's laughter is bordering on obnoxious. It's not his fault that his unasked for powers have ridiculous rules.

"Can you get over here?" he asks. "I'm in meetings all day, important ones, but are you free? Get on a plane. I want to see you."

"I'm not busy," Eduardo says. "I'll get the next flight out."

"I'll meet you at the airport," Mark promises. His mind is spinning, thoughts unable to fix on anything other than the promise of Eduardo's presence. At her desk, the secretary is staring at him with polite curiosity from behind her glasses. He does her best to ignore her.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"'cause I seem to remember having some issues last time you promised that."

Mark breathes through his nose and closes his eyes, but it's not enough to block out memories of Eduardo, soaking wet and angry. Memories are difficult things these days, spiky and black. "I promise," he says, "okay? Drop it."

"Mark-"

"I'll be there. Let me know the time and I'll be there. Don't pick a fight."

Even if they hang up in frustration, Mark's blood still fizzes with excitement. They're being foolish. There's no way of knowing how this is going to work or if Mark is going to be deafened and driven mad as soon as Eduardo comes too close. This is goddamn tin foil, and he shouldn't be placing the sanctity of his mind in something so fragile.

Yet it's Eduardo. _Wardo_. How is he supposed to resist?

The day passes too slowly, and he checks his watch at every opportunity. It's a miracle that he manages to pay attention to the details of the meetings, important as they are, and he can tell that his assistant's patience wears thin. That doesn't mean he cares. He pays her enough to deal with the irritation that apparently comes with looking after him.

He can't be late. Not this time.

Eventually, snail-slow, the clock's hands crawl to the right time and he is released, spilling out of the building and into a car where a driver more experienced than himself can race through the traffic. The airport is too busy, with crowds bunched in front of him out of nothing more than malicious glee. Darting through (and, perhaps, nudging people out of his way with slightly more force than necessary) he makes it to the arrivals bay just in time to see a new stream of people coming in. Too many people. He wants to delete them all.

With a woolly hat and pom-poms adorning his head, Wardo is difficult to miss. He is weighed down with no luggage and when he sees Mark his entire face seems to burst into delighted surprise.

He doesn't run towards him, though. He walks at the same leisurely and elegant pace. Mark thinks that maybe they're missing out on the perfect rom-com moment.

Once they're reunited, it only takes ten minutes before they have locked themselves into the toilets of the VIP lounge, and Mark has his trousers by his ankles and his face pressed against the door as Wardo fucks him fast and hard, pom-poms shaking. There's an awkward waddle in his step by the time he leaves the airport. With his best friend back at his side he doesn't give a damn.

*

He 'loses' his phone and they find a hotel room. Between room service and hundreds of television channels, they don't have to leave the room for days.

Wardo keeps his hat on at all times, and eventually Mark learns not to tease him about it if he wants to keep his head. It looks hand-made and the knit is chunky, blasting in bright red and blue. Flaps hang down by his ears leading to strings embellished with fluff. On the inside, every inch is lined with crunchy tin foil, the only thing standing between Mark and the deafening sound of Eduardo's thoughts.

"I miss it," he admits to Eduardo when they're on the couch together, watching _Aliens_ with sleepy eyes. Eduardo is leaning against his side and Mark's arm is around his shoulders; he didn't even have to attempt an uncool yawn-and-stretch manoeuvre to get it there. "Your thoughts. It's strange not having them in my head."

"I kind of like it," Eduardo answers. "The privacy, I mean."

Mark frowns. "When I can hear what you're thinking, it's easier to deal with you," he says. Eduardo elbows him in the ribs for that. "I'm not saying that to be an asshole."

"What do you mean, 'deal with me'?" Eduardo asks. When he shifts his head, the pom-pom on the top wobbles.

"Being around you. You're difficult." Mark gets the feeling that this is one of those conversations he should never have started. "You're demanding and confusing. When I can read what you're thinking, at least I know what it is you want from me."

"Demanding?" Eduardo sits up straight. Mark's arm falls back to his side, barren. "Please tell me you're joking."

Mark blinks. On the television screen, a man is stabbed through the chest with an alien tail. He thinks that might be symbolic. "Why would that be a joke? It's not funny."

"Exactly. God, Mark." There's something dangerous about the way that Eduardo is looking at him right now. Mark wants to reach out and get rid of that ridiculous hat, even if the sound would make him ache. Eduardo's eyes narrow. "Would things have turned out differently if you'd been able to hear my thoughts all along? Would you still have done it?"

For them, there's no need to clarify what _it_ is. It's the black hole that they won't talk about.

"Is that even relevant?"

"I'm making it relevant." He gives a laugh, a dry chuckle that sounds like chalk. "You would have, wouldn't you? Even knowing what I was feeling, you would have gone right ahead."

Mark looks down at his hands. "I had to protect Facebook."

"You crushed me." Voice rising, shaking, Eduardo abruptly stands up from the sofa. He leaves a warm patch where he should be sitting. "I don't think you even care."

They can't get into this again. If they do, Eduardo will walk out and Mark will let him. There's no agreeing over this. Not ever. "I care," he says. "I could have done it better. I appreciate that. But – "

Eduardo responds by kicking over one of the chairs so that it clatters to the ground. If there was a computer around, Mark imagines he would smash it. "I don't know why I let you do this," he says. It's hissed out like a threat, but Mark can't claim to understand it.

"Should I lie?" he asks. "Is that it? I can't tell you that I didn't do the right thing. You were killing it. If I had read you then, maybe I could have done it in a better way. I could have explained it."

"But you would still have stabbed me in the back."

Mark shrugs with one shoulder. He wants to unleash his tongue and tell Wardo that the reasons he was cut out where everything to do with his incompetence and nothing to do with Mark's lack of empathy – but he can hold himself back. He can recognise where there is a line, and they're both already too close.

"Wardo," he sighs, as if the name might be enough to placate him.

He's rewarded with the stamping of feet and the slam of a door as Eduardo retreats into the bedroom. Left alone, Mark supposes they ought to take it as an accomplishment that it took them this long to fight about it. He covers his face with his hand and counts the seconds, wondering when Eduardo will come begging for an apology.

*

He spends the night on the couch.

Eduardo still isn't speaking to him in the morning.

*

He corners him over breakfast, as much as one can corner anybody at a round breakfast table. "Are you going to have to sue me before we speak again?" he asks.

Eduardo leans back in his seat and looks up at him with an unwavering gaze. "You haven't learned anything."

"That's because I already knew everything." He takes a seat at the table before Eduardo can try to tell him not to. Leaning forward, he wishes he knew how to get Eduardo to let it go. "I don't know what you want from me."

"Compassion, Mark. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, I know – "

"You hurt me. Badly. And no matter what you think was the right thing to do for the website, you should still feel like shit." Eduardo pauses to take a breath, as if he has been running for hours. He clutches the handle of his spoon as if he is considering using it as a weapon. "I want you to feel awful. Like you're breaking up inside."

"I don't do that," Mark says.

Eduardo closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. "I wish you could listen to me."

"No, I'm listening. I get it. You felt bad and you think I should feel just as bad. Karma. I'm not saying that I wasn't a douche. I'm saying I don't regret it, and don't think I should have to."

"You are such an asshole," Eduardo hisses between clenched teeth. The bobble on his hat wobbles in annoyance.

Mark grabs every scrap of courage that he has (along with every inch of humility) and reaches out for Eduardo's hand. Wardo won't let go of the spoon he's clutching, but he doesn't shake Mark away. "I wish you hadn't been hurt," he says. "I could've done things differently, explained it at the time. If I had, maybe we'd be okay. Maybe none of this would have happened."

Wardo's eyes are ridiculously big, and everything is reflected in them. Mark longs to reach out and ease the hat off of his head; deafening or not, he wishes he could hear the reassuring drum of Eduardo's never-ending thoughts.

"Sometimes I think I'm never going to get over it," Eduardo admits. "I think that I'm never going to stop being this angry."

Mark nods. He's heard all of the internal debates that Eduardo has had with himself; he wonders if Eduardo can imagine the extent to which he listens in on him. "Can you try?" he asks. "I want to be with you, but we can't keep fighting over this. It won't work."

Slowly, Eduardo nods. He won't look at Mark, staring down at his breakfast instead, and Mark can see the way that his chest heaves with every breath. "I'm trying," he says. "Really, I'm trying hard to forgive you."

Maybe he's asking too much; maybe stabbing your best friend in the back is supposed to be an ending. "We've got a second chance here. I can read your thoughts. I'm not saying that there's a larger plan at work here, or that this was 'supposed' to happen, or anything like that. I'm saying that whatever happened to me means that we get to have a second shot. If we want. If _you_ want."

Wardo's eyes are wet when he nods his head. His emotions have always been turbulent and close to the surface. Mark doesn't know how he manages to cope with it. "I want," he says. "Of course I do, Mark."

Mark's hand tightens on Wardo's hand. "Good," he says. He nods, as if this is a contract that they've managed to settle. He waits for a moment, until Eduardo bows his head and carries on with his breakfast. It feels like maybe they've made a breakthrough.

For good measure, he reaches out to tug on the end of one of his hat's tassels.

It makes Wardo laugh in surprise. Definitely worth it.

*

Sharing a bed takes a lot of getting used to, with twice the number of limbs to handle and the multiplied heat of two bodies. The smooth warmth of Eduardo's skin makes it worth it, and the heavy pulse of his breathing is its own brand of lullaby. Gradually, they fall into each other.

Half-asleep, he nuzzles his cold nose against the nape of Eduardo's neck. His hand tightens around Eduardo's waist, and Eduardo's hair tickles against his skin with every breath. He smells like shampoo and clean skin.

With a sleepy groan, Mark presses closer against Eduardo's unconscious body, even as his thoughts try to surface, dimly aware that something in this situation isn't right, a puzzle piece that isn't working. He groggily blinks his eyes open and stares at the back of Eduardo's head in the dim half-light of their hotel room.

Eduardo's head.

His hair.

His hatless hairy head.

With a flash of realisation he sat up sharply, hands rising to his head in order to combat the pain from Eduardo's thoughts – but there is nothing. There isn't a sound inside his head but his own panic. Looking down at the bed, he can see where Eduardo's hat has slipped off during the night. Now it lies on the pillow, watching him with amusement as the tin foil inside glints.

Mark sticks his finger in his ear and wiggles. It doesn't help.

"What's going on?" Eduardo mumbles, gradually surfacing. He rolls over onto his back so that he can watch Mark, his eyes still half-closed.

"I can't hear you." He looks down at Eduardo's sprawled form; it's like there's a distance, now. "What are you thinking? Right now, tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm wondering why the hell you're freaking out this early in the morning," Eduardo says. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Tell me what's wrong. I want to help."

Of course he does, he's Wardo, but that doesn't mean he can. "It's gone." That's supposed to be a good thing, he knows that. With Wardo's tin foil trick, it's not even as if he's been using it for at least a week now. "I can't hear you any more."

Wardo's eyebrows rise in surprise, and he reaches out to press his hands against the sides of Mark's head. His fingertips are soft against Mark's temples. Nothing comes through.

"Did you do something?" Wardo asks. His eyes scan frantically over Mark's face as if he's looking for something, a wound or a scar to explain it all. "How can it just stop? It can't do that."

"It did." Mark reaches up to hook his fingers over Wardo's hand. "It started out of nowhere too. It was painful, then."

"You're not in pain now? We should go to a doctor," Wardo says. Mark raises an eyebrow at him in response. "Well. I don't know what we would say, exactly, but this is weird. This whole thing has been weird. Maybe it's good that it's gone like this. We don't have to deal with it any more. I can stop wearing those stupid hats."

"I liked those hats."

"I can shower without wearing a tin-lined swimming cap," Wardo says. He hoists himself forcibly into Mark's lap, limbs flailing and insistent in a way which means that there is nothing that Mark can do other than lie down and let him do what he wants. As it turns out, what he wants to do is take hold of Mark's wrists and pin them down on the mattress. Even knowing that he could break away if he wanted to, Mark stays right where he is. "This is a good thing. Trust me."

"I never said I didn't trust you. When did I say that?"

Mark could go on, protesting his innocence, but Wardo leans down and shuts him up with the press of his full lips. Nothing passes between them, not a single thought, but Mark can still feel the physical press of Wardo's body and the reassuring clasp of his hands. Mark tilts his head back, eases his mouth open, and allows his hands to smooth over Wardo's skin.

Panic still flutters in his chest. He doesn't know what he's doing any more; he hardly remembers how to be around Wardo, how to handle him without the instruction manual of his thoughts.

Yet Wardo's lips are very expressive. No mind-reading required there.

He doesn't go back to work for days.

Without being able to hear them, he needs to learn to read Wardo's thoughts all over again.


End file.
